


Maybe Christmas Doesn't Come From a Store

by rsconne



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Spirit, Clexa Holiday Special 2017, F/F, Fluff, Gifts, holiday magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 22:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsconne/pseuds/rsconne
Summary: It's Christmas Eve and Clarke wants to get Lexa the perfect gift.  Problem is, she's broke.  What to do?





	Maybe Christmas Doesn't Come From a Store

**Christmas Eve**

Clarke cupped a steaming mug of coffee in both hands and gazed pensively out her apartment window.  Slate-grey clouds streaked the morning sky with a promise of snow.  A few intrepid souls hurried past on the sidewalk below, hunching their shoulders against the December wind’s bite, some of them tugging impatiently on leashes to hasten along their pets’ necessary business.  The blustery chill seeped around the cracks of the apartment’s drafty windows, rattling the panes and leaving a thin skim of frost on the edges of the glass.  Clarke huddled deeper into her chunky, cable-knit sweater and wondered, not for the first time, how much turning the thermostat up a couple of degrees would _really_ increase the gas bill.  She sipped her coffee slowly, letting its burn warm her, while her mind churned fretfully. 

She turned away from the window with a disgruntled scowl and walked across the living room.  It wasn’t a large space.  Clarke’s “studio” took up the space near the window—the best lighting in the whole apartment, Clarke insisted—with an easel and a stack of canvases and paints and working sketches stuck to the nearby wall.  Mismatched furniture, some of it clearly thrift store vintage, might have seemed drab or dingy elsewhere, but Clarke’s knack for décor and arrangement transformed the space.  Some of Clarke’s art lent cheer and color to the walls, and a couple of bookshelves sagged with Lexa’s books.  It was comfortable without being cluttered, welcoming despite the frayed edges: homey.  

Clarke set her cooling mug down on the scuffed coffee table and scooped up her phone.  She flopped onto the sofa and pulled up her banking app, hoping against hope that the amount in her account had magically changed since the last time she’d checked it not twenty minutes earlier.  No such luck.  She glared at the meager figure on the screen and sighed.  Most of the time she didn’t mind being a poor—albeit not starving—artist.  If anything, she almost bore it as a mark of pride: that she’d chosen her own path and let the chips fall where they would; that she’d stuck to her guns despite her mother’s disapproval and then disavowal; that she and Lexa were happy despite—perhaps even because of—their limited material resources. 

But this was different.  It was Christmas.  It was Christmas, and by her reckoning she had perhaps forty dollars to spare for Lexa’s gift, and it wasn’t enough.  She and Lexa did little, seemingly insignificant things for each other all the time and Clarke loved receiving and reciprocating the small tokens and gestures of affection.  But it was _Christmas_ , and Lexa was _everything_ , and she deserved so much better on this day of all days.  Clarke even had the perfect gift picked out: the carbon fiber violin bow she’d seen Lexa handle so reverently every time she’d accompanied her to the music shop.  Clarke normally couldn’t stand the violin, its sound far too reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard or cats in full-throated heat.  Lexa’s hands, though, effortlessly coaxed mellow notes from the strings that Clarke found surprisingly soothing.  More importantly, playing brought Lexa peace and helped her order her thoughts (Clarke could always tell when she was struggling with a particularly difficult brief or point of case law because the violin’s strains would suddenly emanate from her office in the spare room).  Clarke had seen the yearning on her face as she weighed the bow’s balance in the shop, but it was inevitably followed by stoic resolve as she carefully placed it back in its display. 

“ _I’m just an amateur, Clarke._ ” 

“ _It’s a frivolous expense, Clarke_.” 

“ _I don’t have time to play that much anyway, Clarke._ ”

“ _Maybe once I’m out of law school and money’s not so tight, Clarke._ ” 

Clarke saw the joy and lightness the instrument gave her, though, and she was determined that Lexa would have something nice—frivolous, even—just for herself, even if she had to move heaven and earth to do it.  Heaven and earth, unfortunately, had had other plans: repairing their aging Honda’s blown transmission had chewed into the savings she’d carefully laid aside, and the sudden, intense bout of pneumonia that had kept her off work for two weeks—and thus unpaid—had sapped the rest.  And now it was Christmas Eve and she had forty dollars, and it wasn’t _enough_.    

Clarke groaned and dropped her head back against the sofa.  Her eye fell on a painting in her workspace.  It was propped against the wall, yet held clear pride of place amidst the jumble of brushes and canvases and half-squeezed tubes of paint.  _The_ painting.  It wasn’t a complicated composition, just an early spring day by the water, the sun low in the sky and casting its last mellow rays over the waves.  A woman sat watching the breakers, her arms wrapped loosely around her knees and her face turned away, revealing only the hint of her jawline.  The wind whipped the woman’s hair into a tumult, yet the figure herself radiated placid serenity.  Clarke had exhibited the painting with a scattering of other pieces in a show six months ago and it had drawn keen interest, less, Clarke suspected, for the technical execution than for the depth of feeling that blazed from the canvas.  She studied it fondly, recalling the moment and emotions captured in the brushstrokes: whiling away the fading sunlight by an impromptu fire near the shoreline, bodies cuddled together in warmth and comfort and inexpressible longing, reluctant to part as lazy afternoon hours stretched into dusk; tender kisses pressed to lips and cheeks and temples; the first shyly whispered “I love yous.”  Despite the offers, Clarke had sworn that she’d never part with the work because of the memories it contained.  But that was then, and it was Christmas Eve, and it was _Lexa_. 

She chewed on her lip as she pondered, then abruptly shot to her feet.  She crossed the room and picked up the canvas, decision made.  She gave it a final, wistful look, then quickly, before she could lose her resolve, tore off a sheet of heavy duty butcher paper and lovingly wrapped it up.  She located the business card on her desk, took a deep breath, and made the call.

“Hi, this is Clarke Griffin from Polis Gallery.  You’d inquired about a painting in our exhibition a few months back, but it wasn’t for sale at the time.  Are you still interested?”

*********

Clarke hung up her coat and kicked her shoes into the little pile by the door.  It had been a surprisingly busy afternoon at the gallery with patrons making last-minute Christmas purchases.  She was tired and her feet ached, but she felt a satisfied glow as she took the violin bow out of the shopping bag and set about wrapping it.  Lexa had just texted to say that she was picking up food on her way home from her part-time clerkship at the law firm, so Clarke knew she only had a few minutes to spare.  She laid the gift carefully under their homely Christmas tree and plugged in the tree lights to greet Lexa with a festive air when she got home from work.  Their friends were coming over in the morning for breakfast and an orphans’ Christmas, so she and Lexa planned to have their own private celebration tonight.   

Lexa straggled through the door a few minutes later.  Her arms were laden with a bulging bag of Chinese take-out and another bulky, odd-shaped package in a large bag.  It had started to snow since Clarke came in, and flakes dotted Lexa’s dark wool pea coat and glittered amongst the waves of chestnut hair that trickled from beneath her beanie. 

Clarke bounced to her side and unburdened her of the food, giving her a gentle, affectionate buss on the lips in greeting.  “Hey, babe!  How was work?”

Lexa’s eyes lit up at seeing Clarke and she kissed her back with a warm smile.  “Oh, fine,” she replied offhandedly.  She slipped off her beanie and coat and unwound her scarf from her neck and put them away.  “We really only put in about half a day.  The office party started up around 2.  Some of the associates were hitting the eggnog pretty hard,” she said.  “I left before they started dishing the really juicy stories,” she added a little regretfully. 

Clarke looked at her curiously.  “That was a while ago—was the Metro delayed?”

Lexa moved into the living room and laid her other parcel beside the Christmas tree.  “Hmm?  Oh!  No, I just had a little errand to run,” she answered cryptically.  Her eyes sparkled and she looked pleased with herself, but she didn’t elaborate.  “And when I got to the Chinese place, I swear the whole neighborhood was there picking up orders.”  As Lexa started for the kitchen, her eyes darted to a particular corner of the room and a tiny frown suddenly creased her brow.  The mysterious smile that hovered on her lips faded a little and her step faltered. 

Lexa helped Clarke plate their food and they sat down.  They chatted about their days as they ate, but Lexa’s earlier buoyant mood had dimmed.  She picked at her food and she kept stealing glances at the other side of the room.  Clarke’s own bubble of excitement deflated a little, until finally she laid a gentle hand on Lexa’s arm.

“Lex, what’s wrong?” she asked with a puzzled frown.

Lexa startled a little.  “What?  Nothing’s wrong,” she insisted, trying to reassure Clarke, but her forced smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Are you sure?”  Clarke pressed.  “You were really happy when you got home, but now you seem, I don’t know—preoccupied.”

Lexa laid her chopsticks down with a tiny sigh.  “I _am_ happy, Clarke.  It’s nothing, just….”  Her voice trailed off and she glanced at the far corner again.  “Your favorite painting is missing,” she finally burst out plaintively.

Clarke bit her lip and averted her eyes for a split second.  A flash of regret briefly crossed her face, but it was quickly chased away by a softer look of repressed excitement and joy.  She dodged Lexa’s implied question and instead took her hand and led her, unresistingly, over to the sofa.  “I’ll explain in a minute, but first I want to give you your present.”  She leaned in and whispered hotly against Lexa’s cheek, “One of them, anyway.”  Lexa’s breath hitched and Clarke gave her a devilish smirk as she pulled back.  Anticipation fairly wafted off of Clarke as she handed Lexa her gift.  “Merry Christmas, babe.”  She plopped sideways on the sofa with one leg tucked under her to watch.  “Open it!” she urged eagerly.

Clarke’s smile grew as she watched Lexa meticulously unwrap the package.  She methodically worked each piece of tape free, momentarily breaking her concentration to smile back at Clarke as she laid the wrapping paper aside.  Clarke held her breath as Lexa opened the box and saw the contents.  Lexa’s jaw dropped and her eyes shot to Clarke’s.  She slumped back against the sofa, stunned.  “ _Clarke!_   This is…this is….” She struggled to find words and Clarke, seeing tears glistening in her eyes, leaped in to fill the silence while Lexa composed herself. 

“You said better bows can create a better sound, and I’ve seen you checking this one out in the shop, and you always get this _look_ on your face when you hold it and you don’t know how sad you look when you put it back, it breaks my heart,” Clarke babbled.  “And you’re _good_ , Lex, _really_ good, and I really, really wanted you to have something nice that makes you happy, and to see that look all the time when you play, cause it makes _me_ happy—”

Lexa cut her off abruptly with a kiss.  “Clarke,” she breathed.  “It’s wonderful.”  She drew Clarke close and kissed her again, curling careful fingers in the fine hairs at the nape of Clarke’s neck and letting her lips convey the depth of her emotion. 

Clarke sank into the kiss and Lexa’s touch, and the delicate flutter in her chest expanded until she thought she might burst.  She finally broke the kiss with a breathless gasp and rested her forehead against Lexa’s, her hand lightly stroking Lexa’s cheek while Lexa’s tangled in Clarke’s hair.  “You really like it?” she whispered hopefully.

“God, Clarke, it’s amazing— _you’re_ amazing,” Lexa whispered back.  “But how did you—I mean, you must have saved for _months_.”

Clarke pulled back just a hair and said casually, “Well, yeah, and I sold that painting—” At that, Lexa made a sudden, strangled sound and looked almost stricken.  “Babe, what is it?” Clarke asked, sitting up in concern. 

Lexa simply shook her head.  She retrieved the large package she’d brought home, passed it to Clarke, and resumed her spot on the couch beside her.  “Your turn.  Merry Christmas, Clarke,” she said with a quiet smile. 

Unlike Lexa, Clarke ripped into the wrap with gusto, tearing the paper away in giant strips to reveal a large, intricately-carved art frame.  Her blue eyes filled with tears and the sudden lump in her throat made it difficult to speak.  “It’s beautiful, Lexa,” she said in a hushed voice. 

“I knew how much you loved that painting, what it meant to you,” Lexa said softly, “so I had a custom frame made for it.”  She took a deep breath.  “But I sold my violin to pay for it.”

Clarke looked at her in shocked horror.  “Lexa, no!” 

Lexa ducked her shoulder in a helpless shrug.  “It was the only thing I had with any real value, and making you happy was worth every penny.  I never dreamed that you’d sell your painting.  Oh, babe, no!” she said with concern, as the dam burst and tears spilled down Clarke’s cheeks.  Lexa scooted close and took Clarke in her arms.  She gently brushed the tears from Clarke’s cheeks with her thumbs, and feathered kisses in their wake, taking no notice of the wetness that streaked her own face. 

“I hadn’t planned on selling it,” Clarke admitted through a choked sob, “but you’re more important.  And I’ll never forget how that day felt even if I don’t have the painting to remind me.”  She kissed Lexa back, each of them pouring their hearts into it and drawing solace from each other.  They finally drew back and looked at each other.  “Lexa, what have we done?” Clarke asked with a rueful smile.  “We meant to do something nice for each other and ended up giving ourselves gifts we can’t enjoy,” she observed wryly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Lexa mused.  She laid back against the sofa and wrapped an arm around Clarke to tuck her against her body.  She cradled Clarke’s head against her chest and gently carded soothing fingers through her hair.  Clarke hummed at the sensation and let peace wash over her.  “I’ll eventually get another violin.  And we’ll just have to make some new memories for you to paint.  No, seems to me we gave each other the things that are most special to us—and isn’t that the whole point?  Besides,” she tilted her head forward and dropped a light kiss on the crown of Clarke’s head, “I have the best gift I could ever want right here.”  They sat together in contented silence for a long while, until Lexa cleared her throat and remarked slowly, “Although….”  Her voice took on a huskier tone.  “You _did_ say something about _another_ present….”

Clarke lifted her head and arched an eyebrow at her.  A sensual grin slowly spread across her face.  She scooted up Lexa’s body to connect their lips once more.  “Mhmm,” she murmured just before she brought their mouths together.  “Let’s go the bedroom so you can unwrap it.”

And there was much rejoicing.     

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a classic story by O. Henry. Title from (who else?) Dr. Seuss.
> 
> Feel free to say hi on my tumblr (such as it is) at [barbieliberationarmy](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/barbieliberationarmy)


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